A Symphony of Language, a Cacophony of Diatribe
by le manchot du destin
Summary: One-shot. It's seventh year, and Ron, Harry, and Hermione haven't spoken much lately. But that has to change, Ron realizes. Because there is a special strength in friendship. Rated for a string of Shakespearean insults (nothing serious, after all, my E


Well, this is a one-shot I thought I'd do; just to give y'all an idea of the "color" of the English Language. And what a rainbow it is…Well, I think I've succeeded in making the whole thing seem quite beautiful, and it is…just not in the original meaning of the word…

And this is to make up to all my faithful reviewers, because I haven't updated in around three weeks. So here you are, everyone.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

A Symphony of Language, a Cacophony of Diatribe:

Ron sighed and looked around. The common room was empty. Well, except for Hermione, of course. She was sitting at a table in the corner, surrounded by books, muttering under her breath.

This was nothing new, of course. As seventh year proceeded, the teachers had given more and more homework, piling it on until even the most dedicated student was hard-pressed to finish it all on time. This most dedicated student being Hermione. But she had finished, and she'd worked harder and harder as the year progressed.

As the NEWTs approached, Harry was gone with Dumbledore for longer and longer periods of time. Hermione had fully ceased moving from her table, excepting for food and the bathroom. And Ron? Well, Ron had been left on his own more and more.

Being alone is a dangerous thing. There are fewer options when alone. One can talk to oneself, write letters, play chess with oneself, eat, play Quidditch with oneself, do homework, bewitch flies to fly into one's palm, read, sing and dance, and, of course, think.

Never having been a very good singer, and profoundly hating the idea of any scholarship outside the mammoth responsibility of preparing for NEWTs, Ron tried chess. Unfortunately, there was little competition. No matter how hard he tried, his left hand always won, and easily at that.

So chess was a lost cause, and playing keeper without chasers was doomed from the start, so Ron had gotten to thinking. Which is probably the most dangerous thing of all. Because when one thinks, one is exposed to all sorts of revelations that one never wanted to have.

Ron suddenly found himself a prime example of this. He'd been thinking, innocently, about homework and testing, subjects never far from any seventh year's mind in these times. But this led to thinking about what they weren't doing, now that they were studying so diligently.

Ron closed his eyes. He missed the days when he, Harry, and Hermione had been virtually carefree. They used to have the run of the castle, sneaking about after curfew, following clues, solving mysteries. Making fun of Snape.

Fifth year, though, had been a turning point. Suddenly, the truth struck home. Sirius Black was dead. Dead. The word thudded in Ron's ears. Dead, like Ron's own father had almost been, when he was attacked by the snake. Dead like Percy was now. But that didn't happen until later.

All through that summer, after fifth year, there was a cloud hanging over Harry, Hermione, and Ron. A war had begun, and one of the first casualties had been a close friend of Harry's. A godfather, and a mixture of father and brother. Ron had seen Harry's relationship with Sirius. He'd seen how Harry's eyes lit up with the merest mention of the one member of his family who actually loved him.

Oh, Sirius hadn't been perfect. Hermione was right in that respect. He'd been sent to Azkaban as a twenty-two-year-old, with a twenty-two-year-old's priorities. He'd emerged twelve years later, older, less innocent, but still with the priorities of a twenty-two-year-old. He'd never gotten a chance to really mature.

Nonetheless, his death hit Ron and his friends hard. Harry drew back, kept things from Ron and Hermione. Hermione found solace in her books. And Ron? He played chess with himself, then Quidditch. And then he just gave up and thought.

Nowadays, Harry was still the best friend Ron had. Hermione made a close second, just like always. But, although they were all still friends it did nothing to shorten the gulf that had grown between the three of them.

Ron frowned, glowered at the game of exploding snap he was playing with himself. This was ridiculous. So what if Harry was too busy with Dumbledore late into the nights? So what if Hermione wanted to study around the clock?

_We've made a mistake,_ Ron thought suddenly. _All this planning, all this effort put into trying to destroy Voldermort_ (he said the name firmly in his mind), _and what do we get? We're losing. And no wonder. We're letting him win. By splitting up, by not caring, we're letting him win._

And with that, Ron was off. He glanced up at the clock over the fireplace. Nearly 3:47 AM. No wonder no one was awake. Even Hermione had probably dropped off by now. Ron listened. He was right, she wasn't muttering anymore.

But no matter. Ron took the stairs to the dormitory four at a time. He bee-lined straight to the top, and opened the door. Third bed on the right, and Ron snatched at the hangings, pulling them open to reveal his best friend. Harry Potter. The boy who lived. The boy who needed a good month's sleep, and a break from responsibility. Over a year of training with Dumbledore had aged Harry, made him look older and more tired.

_Oh well,_ Ron thought, _one more late night won't kill him._ Ron leaned over and poked Harry in the small of his back. Hard. And again, when that didn't produce a result. Finally, Harry woke.

"Ron," he muttered, "I'm tired, I was up until 2 this morning practicing curses with Dumbledore. Is this important?"

"Yes," Ron said stoutly. He shoved a sweater at Harry, and gestured at the stairs. "Come on, we need to have a chat."

Harry frowned, and Ron had to admit that the circles under his eyes certainly paid tribute to many a late night. Harry really was overextended. But there was nothing Ron—or anyone else, for that matter—could do about it. For some reason, Ron still wasn't sure what, Voldermort had been after Harry since first year. These long nights of training might save Harry's life, someday. Or maybe they already had.

Ron led the way back down into the common room, and he headed decisively to the corner Hermione had monopolized for her own use. Harry followed behind, still yawning and complaining slightly, but Ron paid him no mind.

"Hermione," he whispered. Then, louder. "Hermione?"

Her eyebrows twitched, and Ron said her name one last time. "Hermione!"

"What?" Hermione yawned, opening her mouth so wide that her jaw creaked and crackled arthritically. "Ron, what are you doing here?"

"It's the common room, Hermione, I'm actually here quite often."

Hermione fixed her most intimidating scowl onto Ron's face. "Look, Ron, I'm trying to study here. So if you'd please—" She gestured pointedly at a piece of parchment Ron had been leaning on.

Ron moved his hand away from the parchment. "Hermione, you were sleeping." Then, before she could come up with a suitable retort. "Look, Harry, Hermione, we have a problem."

"A problem?" Harry looked concerned.

"Saving-people-thing," Ron murmured to himself, thinking again of the good old days, like those in fourth year. Ron still remembered that second task, and Harry taking the merpeople's song seriously. But, then again, Harry's complex had also come into play in the death of Sirius Black. And that had been the beginning of the deterioration of the friendship.

"Yeah," Ron said. "A problem. You see, I've been thinking lately." A dangerous thing to do. "I thought about school and about Quidditch, and about the three of us. We used to be best friends—"

"We still are," Harry interrupted.

Ron just frowned. "Harry," he said. "We used to tell eachother things, help eachother, annoy the bloody hell out of eachother. D'you remember that? It wasn't so long ago."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Ron! I'm trying to work!" She'd picked up a heavy volume, arithmancy, probably, and was taking speedy notes on it.

Ron stared in disbelief. "What happened to us?"

Harry just shrugged, though. "There's a lot going on. And—things happen. Things you can't stop. And all you can do is prepare for them as best you can." He blinked, and seemed to notice Ron again. For a moment, Harry'd been lost in his own problems again.

And that was the bloody problem!

"Don't you two see?!! All you can think about is you! Well guess what? I know your life is hard!" Ron almost yelled at Harry and Hermione. "We're in a war! _Everyone's_ lives are hard! But you guys try so hard to deal with your problems on your own, and look where it's gotten you! Taking notes at four in the morning, and practicing hexes until two?" Ron took a breath. "Remember the triwizard tournament?" he asked, softly this time. "We all worked together to help you learn the hexes, Harry. And it worked." He shook his head. "What happened to that?"

Harry looked at Ron as if seeing him for the first time. "It did work, didn't it?"

"Yeah," Ron said tiredly, "it worked pretty darn well."

They looked at eachother, and the old camaraderie returned, in part. Harry smiled, and Ron beamed. Dumbledore was right, they were stronger together than apart.

Hermione didn't look up, though. Her movements tensed, and she continued to stare determinedly at her textbook.

"Hermione?" Harry whispered hesitantly.

"I'm studying! For goodness sake, leave me alone!"

Harry pulled back, visibly hurt.

Ron, however, submitted Hermione to his most ferocious glare. Which had no effect, as Hermione was once again immersed in her note-taking, and wasn't paying a whit of attention to Harry or Ron.

Harry shrugged, as if to say that he was used to it. Neither of them had spoken much to Hermione in the past year. Nor had they spoken much to eachother. But now, now Harry opened his mouth. He looked deadly serious.

"Ron," he glanced at Hermione, but didn't say her name. "There was something I didn't tell you. I—I found out about in fifth year, but I didn't want you to know. I do now, though."

Ron shrugged. He wanted to know, bloody hell, of course he did, but he didn't want to push Harry. Their friendship was too fragile, at the moment, to risk anything like that.

"Well," Harry said, "do you remember that prophesy, from fifth year? The one that—the one that broke?"

Ron got the feeling that Harry had been about to say something else, but once again, he didn't press. Ron nodded.

"Dumbledore knew it. It was Professor Trelawney's first prediction. It—she—it was about me. And Lord Voldermort." Harry paused, automatically looking to see Ron's reaction to the name. He seemed surprised at the lack of nervous twitch or jump, but, then again, Ron, too, had grown in the past two years.

"Anyway," Harry continued nervously, "it said that I had to kill Voldermort. Or that he would have to kill me. One or the other. But that's how it's going to end." Harry's voice had been moving quicker and quicker, as if he hoped that if he said it fast enough, Ron wouldn't hear it, or wouldn't care.

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it. He was surprised in spite of himself. Sure, he'd always known Voldermort was after Harry. He'd have had to be a complete numbskull not to realize _that_. But he'd always assumed that it was just Voldermort's way of trying to finish the job. That it was him just trying to get rid of the humiliation of being vaporized by a one-year-old.

But this? This changed things. It solidified what once had been only an assumption. Harry or Voldermort was going to die. Period. The end.

Ron looked at Harry, at his harried state (no pun intended) and at his tired eyes. This was the burden Harry had been shouldering for years now. And alone. _Why does he have to be so bloody stubborn?_ Ron seethed to himself. _All he had to do was tell me or Hermione and we'd have helped him. We always used to do that._

But what Ron said was different. "All right then, mate, so I'll help you out, right? I mean, I hate to submit myself to your clumsy hexing again, but, hey, all for a good cause."

A grin broke out on Harry's face. He seemed so surprised, like he'd been expecting Ron to back off and run away at the news. But then Harry glanced over at Hermione.

She was still sitting in her seat, staring at her arithmancy book. But she was no longer taking notes. She glared angrily at the parchment in front of her, and didn't quite manage to stop the tear in her eye from dripping down onto the textbook in front of her.

"Hermione?" Ron tried again, hesitantly. "Are you alri—"

"I'm _fine_!" she screeched, snapping like a rubber band stretched too tightly. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, you are a bawdy, brazen, churlish, distempered, fitful, gnarling, greasy, grizzled, haughty, hideous, jaded, knavish, lewd, peevish, prating, purpled, queasy, rank, reeky, roynish, saucy, sottish, unmuzzled, vacant, wagging, wanton, yeasty HEDGE-PIG!" She yelled, wildly brushing the tears from her eyes, trying to ignore the tear she had missed, the one that was making its way down her nose.

Harry looked quite surprised. Hermione and Ron had always fought, but this was a bit beyond that.

Ron, on the other hand, opened his mouth, though he was still not quite sure how he could reply to such an onslaught.

Hermione didn't give him time to decide, though. She was off again, screaming as though her life depended on it. "You're a bunch-backed, clay-brained, dog-hearted, evil-eyed, eye-offending, fat-kidneyed, heavy-headed, horn-mad, ill-breeding, ill-composed, ill-nurtured, iron-witted, lean-witted, lily-livered, mad-bread, motley-minded, muddy-mettled, onion-eyed, pale-hearted, paper-faced, pinch-spotted, raw-boned, rug-headed, rump-fed, shag-eared, sour-faced, weak-hinged, white-livered MALIGNANCY!"

She paused for a breath, stifling a sob. This time, Ron didn't try to say anything. He and Harry both stood, staring at Hermione as though they'd never seen anything quite like her. They were speechless, and clearly impressed at the language Hermione was spouting at the top of her lungs.

"You're BOTH just clotpoles, crutches, cutpurses, dogfish, egg-shells, gull-catchers, hempseeds, jack-a-napes, malt-worms, manikins, miscreants, moldwarps, nut-hooks, pantaloons, rabbit-suckers, rampallions, remnants, rudesbies, ruffians, scantlings, scullions, snipes, waterflies, whipsters, and YOUNKERS!"

"Wow," Harry whispered as Hermione sucked in another breath, finally getting her tears under control.

"Yeah," Ron replied in the same soft tone. "Hermione, that was—"

"RON, STOP IT! YOU—CANKER-BLOSSOM!"

"—brilliant" he finished.

Hermione stared at her two friends. Both standing in front of her table, looking awed beyond words. Neither of them seemed angry or offended in the least.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, ashamed of her outburst already. "That was—"

"Bloody brilliant, Hermione. Like I said. It was bloody brilliant. Where did you _get_ all those?"

Hermione blushed, looking again like the Hermione from fourth or fifth year. "They're Shakespearean insults." She couldn't suppress a small smile at Ron's confused look. "He was a muggle playwright. And a beautiful poet."

"And he said things like that? A poet?" Ron looked at Hermione in disbelief. "Muggles are completely mad," he muttered under his breath.

Hermione smiled, then quashed the emotion. "I'm really sorry about that. Really. It's just—"

"Hermione, you're amazing," Harry pointed out. "You're a fantastic student, head girl, and you manage to do _everything_. You're allowed to break down and scream every once in a while."

Ron grinned. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

Hermione still looked embarrassed, though. She still seemed to regret her outbreak.

"Loosen up, Hermione," Harry suggested with a smile.

"And come on, you _can't _tell us you didn't enjoy that." Ron smirked, watching Hermione's face.

"Oh, all right," she huffed. Then smiled. "It _did_ feel wonderful to finally get all that out of my system. And I really did miss screaming at Ron."

Ron's smirk grew. "Same here. It's bloody depressing not being able to yell at you regularly."

"But now neither of you have to worry," Harry explained, treating them like two-year-olds. You can fight all you want. Right?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "Yeah, we're all back together now." Back together, and staying together. And they'd fight Voldermort and win. And that was that.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Wow, that surprised me. I was just going to find a nice use for the "Shakespearean Insult Sheet" my English teacher so kindly supplied me with. But it ended up being a full seven pages.

Okay, I know at least one person will tell me Hermione is out of character, and that canon Hermione would not shout insults at Harry and Ron for no reason. I accept that, and my reasoning is that she's under a lot of stress (just think, the trio noticed the load up for OWLs in their fourth year, and NEWTs are bigger and more exhausting, says so in their name "_Nastily Exhausting_ Wizarding Tests" so Hermione, top student must be under massive pressure). Plus, she's barely talked to her two best friends for almost two whole years. So there's a lot of pent up energy. So yes, I think she is a bit OOC, but I can deal with it and so can you.

As always, check out my other stories, "Of Cohorts and Competitors" and "Oddments and Essays." Also, I have a joint name **SiriuslyInsane62442** (which is me and **PinkytheSnowman**) which has two more stories: "Stalker! Letters from a Bighead" and "The Trouble with Evil Monkeys." If you're still low on reading material, I've done a lot of rp-ing for **Lia Tween** in her story "Surfacing Memoirs." Finally, **jedicren** has been kind enough to let me beta her story: "The Past Haunts You." Those not written by me are wonderful, and those written by me are, well, written by me. So if you like this, I suppose you'll like them as well.

Please, if you've any heart at all, REVIEW for me. Because it makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Which is good because it's starting to get a bit chilly here in NY.

manchot du destin


End file.
